Fallen Angels
by Starkworth
Summary: On a primitive world, a man trades in his son's future to end a feud that has lasted generations. He prays to his gods in his time of inner turmoil, desperate and fearful for the safety of his family. From across the stars, blue angels come, falling from the heavens. They appear to be beauty made flesh, but only time will tell if they are a blessing for his family, or a curse.
1. Chapter 1

_Now, this idea has been swimming around in my head for a good few months, ever since I found out that there was some cut content from the 'Lair of the Shadow Broker' DLC involving a younger Samara crash landing on Earth during Shakespeare's time, with her and her fellow asari crew members encountering medieval humans and such. _

_The idea of that happening would not let me go. That and the fact that I got inspiration from another writer, Eterna1Soldier and his plethora of annoyingly well-written first contact fics. He, much like myself, has a fascination with the asari species, so if you like this fic then you'll __**love**__ what he has to offer._

_So… here you go._

_Just a story based on what I find to be an interesting scenario. _

_Let me know what you think whether by review or PM. I am not so thin-skinned as to not handle criticism. _

_**NOTE:**__ I believe that I was not clear and possibly a bit misleading. So, allow me to set the record straight. This is a first contact AU. The key part of that is the __**AU**__. __**A**__lternate __**U**__niverse. Right? Right. The asari will encounter Earth during medieval times, that is certain, but the Earth in this story will not be the one that we know. I am not a history buff, and I'm not like DarkDanny where I'll go and do tons of research for the sake of accuracy. I'm just not that guy. I don't know much in the way of history, but I do know the Mass Effect codex. Sad, I know._

_The Samara first contact idea was something that fascinated me, enough so that I decided to write a story based upon it. Again, the key word there is based. This will not be about Samara and friends meeting Shakespeare and taking on the Spanish Armada. Disappointing for some of you, of this I am certain. But this story will have Aela and friends (which will include maiden!Samara) encountering medieval humans on an alternate Earth. _

_You might find that this alternate version of Earth is heavily inspired by Westeros of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" series by Evil Santa… er, I mean, George R. R. Martin. Again, I'm a lazy ass who couldn't be bothered to outright make this story a crossover. So, here you end up with the lovely asari from Mass Effect running afoul of grizzled, bearded men of a not-so-original medieval setting. All because I could not be bothered to do some research. Hooray._

_Now that things have been made clear, I hope you stick around and enjoy what I have to offer you._

_Thank you,_

_Starkworth_

**]-[**

_**Armali, Northern Apastyr - Thessia **_

_**Rumareai apartment complex, uptown**_

Aela was not having a good day.

The short asari matron was pacing around her cluttered apartment, battling the building feelings of anger, frustration and anxiety. Back and forth she travelled across the main living quarters, all the while the holo-screen played a turian drama. She ignored it, her thoughts elsewhere.

A short distance from the dark blue woman, sitting on her work desk, was her communication unit, its holo-display opened and once again replaying the most recent message.

Much like the holo-screen, the audio file had none of Aela's attention. Not that it needed it, for the asari had heard the message enough times to memorize it.

"_Captain Aela Norvis,"_ A feminine voice spoke, smooth and sweet and full of false compassion.

"_We regret to inform you that the High Thessian Council of Matriarchs has decided against the renewal of your exploration contract. This is in no way a reflection of you or your crew's skills, however. All exploration and territory expansion projects have been put on hold for the foreseeable future._

"_Although you and your crew are known for a history of exemplary service to the Asari Republics and an unparalleled ability to seek out habitable and resource-rich planets for colonization, recent discussions with respected turian and salarian officials have led the Matriarchy to the conclusion that further expansion through unexplored relays is unnecessary at this time._

"_We thank you for your many years of service and wish you nothing but good fortune in any and all of your future endeavors._

"_Sincerely, Chieftess Elynn Araeni, spokeswoman for the High Thessian Council of Armali." _The voice droned on, with but little sincerity.

Aela knew that the turians had been pushing for a temporary cessation of all exploration activities, but surely the wily salarians would have stood against such notions! Aela frowned, rubbing her crest as if that would sooth her headache, imagining that the salarians must have been brow-beaten by the surly turian "diplomats".

_Damn them!_ The matron glowered as she finally took a seat on her cheap couch, taking slow, heavy breaths. The salarians were a cautious bunch, sure, but they took risks just as often as they did not. They knew that the bold are rewarded as much as they are punished, that curiosity could be fruitful.

The turians, however, were rigid, uncompromising and static. As fierce as their fighters were, so were they steadfast. Change defeated them and thus change was their enemy. And, apparently, so was Aela's line of work.

_This is dreadful_, Aela thought, _simply dreadful!_ Her, her crew, hundreds of others like them, all out of work because the paranoia of a few.

Her omni-tool flashed and beeped, indicating that she was receiving yet another message, this time to her personal device. She flipped open her holo-display, navigating to her message inbox, finding a text file labeled "Phorae". She clicked on it.

_Aela,_

_Goddess, have you heard what the Matriarchs said? They've sent all the captains of exploration vessels messages! I just got into town! Call me as soon as you can!_

_-Rae._

Sighing, Aela did so. She waited a moment as her omni-tool synced with the local comm. array, linking her up with her fellow crew-member and friend. Before she could get a word in, Phorae Alyste's normally bubbly voice assaulted her ears, now panicked and distressed.

"_Did you get my message, Aela? Did you hear what the Matriarch's have said? What are we going to do, Aela? I haven't got any other prospects! The others, they don't either! Oh, goddess, what are we going to do?" _

All of it had been said in a single breath.

Despite her recent loss of work, Aela could not help the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

"I have heard, Rae. I know it's bad, but…" She replied, trying to come up with something that might calm her friend down.

"_But what, Aela? This isn't bad, this is awful!"_

"Rae . . ."

"_We don't have jobs now! You and I, the rest of the crew, we put __**everything**__ into searching for new worlds! Goddess, how is Etza going to take this? Or Lani?"_

"_Rae_ . . ."

"_. . . And with the unopened relays under lockdown, the galaxy is only going to get smaller. They won't need us, Aela! All the places worth finding would've already been found!"_

Aela flinched as if struck. She knew how bad her situation was, but to hear her friend say it aloud… The matron caught herself quickly, her face hardening, hoping her voice would as well. She leaned forward, bringing her mouth closer to the microphone.

"You don't need to remind me how things work, Rae. Trust me, I know better than most. This is not the best position we find ourselves in–"

"_Definitely not."_

"_But_, we are asari, Rae. We are resourceful. We'll find a way to make things work in our favor, one way or another," Aela assured both her friend and herself, not entirely believing her own words.

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line, leaving the matron to wonder if Phorae was even still there. Then came her voice.

"_Okay,"_ Aela's friend quietly spoke, noticeably less anxious than she was moments ago. _"I trust you, Aela. We'll… we'll make it work. Even if we have to spend weeks hauling goods from one backwater colony to the next, we'll keep on going."_

Aela gave a small smile.

"Yeah," She said. "We'll be fine."

This time, she almost believed it.

The matron found herself finally relaxing, her shoulders, once tense, now slumping as she leaned back into her couch. She allowed herself to turn into a puddle for a brief moment, her heavy eyelids fluttering shut. Perhaps it would not be so bad, she barely believed, perhaps they would find work in other field. They had a ship, they had a crew. There must be someone in the galaxy who would hire them for something. Anything.

_It's going to be fine_, Aela thought, her mind drifting to happier thoughts…

Then Phorae's voice came rushing back, piercing her ears.

"_Do want to go get some drinks?" _

"Goddess, _yes._"

**]-[**

Neither Aela nor Phorae were in the mood to go to a club. The bright, pulsing lights, the booming music that would have no doubt ruptured their eardrums, that was not what they desired. All the two asari wanted was to do was to drink their frustration away. Fortunately, Aela knew of a small, cozy bar – hidden deep in downtown Armali – that was more to their current tastes.

The establishment was a nice choice, Aela decided. It was a rather obscure "watering hole" type of bar, the kind that was built to reflect a certain time period, where stepping inside felt like stepping into another century. The time in particular was shortly after the Krogan Rebellions, during the Galactic Biotic Games, the establishment reminiscent of the ones the asari public would gather at to watch the live event unfold on the old-style holo-screens.

There, they drank.

It was . . . _nice_. Two old friends, sitting side by side, enjoying each other's company in silence – with the occasional slurred joke or two as the exception. However, the other denizens – as well as the bartenders – appeared to have little patience for Aela and Phorae's uninhibited heart-to-heart. Ultimately, the frowns and grimaces thrown their way were justified, for in the end, the establishment was really a dolled-up sports bar – not a catharsis hub.

"We'll be fine, Rae," Aela repeated, attempting a chipper tone even with her drink – her fourth one – making her feel more than just a little dizzy.

"You . . . you're absolutely right!" Her friend agreed, stumbling over her words. She smiled, goofy and brightly, bumping her shoulder against Aela's, all the while ignoring the odd looks thrown their way by the turquoise-skinned bartender. "W-we'll be aaalright. Like you said, Ae: we're asari. It's not like we've got a time limit or something. Hell, I could go back to school! Learn something else and find a new career!"

Aela snorted, almost choking on her drink.

"That's not a bad idea, n-no not at all."

Phorae continued on, undeterred. "I mean, how long would that take? Five years? A decade? I've got the time. I'm an asari, I've got all the time in the galaxy!"

Both asari broke into a fit of drunken giggles, sputtering as they nearly toppled off their stools. This earned them a rather pointed look from the bartender, who made a show of moving certain breakable objects a distance away from the chuckling pair. It was enough to be noticed by Aela who understood the wordless request: please stop acting like drunken fools and try not to break my stuff.

The older asari nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She set her drink done and gently separated Phorae from hers, sliding both glasses a short way down the bar. Phorae made an unintelligible sound, one of bewilderment and annoyance at the loss of her sweet honey mead. She shot her friend a look, her white facial markings moving as her brow formed into a glare.

Aela simply patted the younger asari on the back.

"Th-that's enough for tonight, I believe. We should go home, both of us," Aela said, managing to sound at least somewhat sober as she attempted to ease of her stool with at least some semblance of the grace her species was known for. "We were always lightweights, Rae. Let's not continue lest we do something we'll both regret tomorrow."

Phorae grunted, obviously annoyed at their early departure, but followed anyway. She too slid off of her barstool, faring much better in keeping herself dignified despite having consumed more than her partner.

_I'll never understand how she is able to do that._

The pair headed for the door as quick as they could without stumbling, having taken the hint that they had overstayed their welcome at the small establishment. It had become apparent that the bartenders did not appreciate their increasingly impaired ability to speak, nor did they enjoy Phorae's half-drunken attempt to recite her University's graduate oath.

The two women left the bar to a dazzling display of glittering skyscrapers that towered above them, office and hotel lights shining against the dark night sky. Skycars zipped by overhead like a continuous stream of shooting stars, crisscrossing and swerving between buildings. Streetcars took to the smoothly paved roads as well, carrying on at a leisurely pace, slow enough for passersby to admire the vehicles' sleek shapes – very much unlike the clamshell skycars.

They had travelled only a block before Aela came to the conclusion that they would need to call a cab. "We'll never make it back home walking," the older asari had told her friend as she led her to a nearby bench.

As Rae sat down on the somewhat-clean bench, Aela opened up her omni-tool and began to scroll through her contacts list, searching for a cab company.

An interruption came in the form of a dark, nondescript street-van coming to stop right beside them. Three asari emerged from the vehicle. The first, a light blue woman whose plain face was devoid of markings, was dressed in a black bodysuit. Emblazoned above her right breast was a yellow marking that Aela recognized as ancient Thessian script – the marking of the respected T'Mosa bloodline. The same symbol could be seen marking the other two asari as well, adorning their formfitting commando leathers.

They approached the two less-than-sober asari with purpose, standing as tall and rigid as any turian soldier. Aela could not help but feel a little apprehension as to what might happen next. First she and her crew had been essentially fired, now . . . was she to be arrested, too?

The plain-faced asari in the black bodysuit walked up close but kept a respectful distance. She crossed her arms behind her back, straightening herself until she resembled a marble statue. She spoke clearly, but not too loudly, clearly attempting to sound as nonaggressive as she could.

"Aela Norvis? Phorae Kalliste? I need you both to come with us."

Phorae was the first to speak, though it was clear she was about as drunk as a krogan after a payday. The younger asari blinked once, eyes wide as if she _just_ noticed that the intruders were there, and then, with all the innocence of a maiden barely past her first century, said, "Did you already call a cab, Aela? Damn, they're _fast!_"

Ignoring her friend, Aela pressed her lips into a line, forcing herself to sober up through sheer force of will. She leveled her eyes with the woman in the bodysuit, holding her gaze.

"I don't mean to sound rude but . . . who are _you_, exactly?" Aela asked with a furrowed brow.

Aela didn't think it was possible, but the plain-faced woman stood even straighter, chin held high.

"I am Eredi Quoren, an acolyte of High Matriarch Trellani T'Mosa, as are my acquaintances, Jora and Theba," She said with some pride, gesturing to the two commandos who flanked her. "We have been sent to collect you and your friend. For a reason not yet made clear to us, our Mistress wishes to speak with you, Captain Norvis."

Aela gave Quoren a confused stare, blinking in surprise.

_Trellani? __**The**__ Trellani? Why would she . . . wait, "captain"?_

"I'm not a captain at the moment, Miss Quoren," She said, shaking her head. "Haven't you heard the news? All expansion ventures have been cancelled, all exploration ships grounded."

"Look at this car, Aela!" Somehow, Phorae had slipped away from her seat on the bench and was now already _inside_ the black van, ogling at the interior like a child in a candy store. "What kind of cab-company did you call? They've got _holo screens_ built into the back of the seats!"

Quoren promptly stepped before Aela, putting herself between the former captain and her drunken friend as well as catching the woman's attention once more.

"I wouldn't know much about that, _Captain_ Norvis," The acolyte replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her thin lips. "All I know is that we were given orders to pick up one specific starship captain and her navigator, and then escort you both back to our Mistress' estate."

Aela frowned, setting her jaw. She narrowed her eyes at the woman before her, seeing if she would betray anything besides this distant professionalism. The matron had no such luck.

"And why, _exactly_, would a High Matriarch wish to speak with the likes of me? I am just . . . _was_ just a starship captain."

The acolyte opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Phorae's slurred voice.

"This is a _nice car_! Goddess, Aela! I think this is _real_ leather! Not that synthetic crap either, like the salarians like to make, but actual, real leather!"

One of the commandos shot the drunken asari an amused glance, one brow raised as she watched Phorae fumble about among the back seats of their van.

"How much did she drink?" The woman – Aela believed she was called Theba – asked, grinning like a mother who had caught her young children playing.

Aela threw the commandos an apologetic look, shoulders hunched as she sunk back into the bench.

"Not a lot," She answered, cringing as she saw Phorae stroking the leather car seats not unlike an asari would a pet . . . or a lover. "She's . . . well, she's a light-weight. More so than I am."

Theba looked from Aela back to Phorae, still grinning. "I can see that."

Quoren cleared her throat, drawing Aela's attention back to her. The former starship captain nodded but averted direct eye-contact, still feeling more than a little embarrassed by her navigator's obvious inebriation. _Goddess preserve me from a woman in her third century who cannot hold her liquor._

"So . . . Why _does_ a High Matriarch wish to speak with me?"

"I apologize, captain -"

"_Not_ a captain…"

"- _Like I said_, I was not given any more information than was necessary. I'm just following the instructions given to me. Pick you up, take you to the estate. Now, if you would please join your friend in the car . . ." Quoren took a step back, gesturing to the vehicle behind her, her thin lips curling into what Aela assumed was her attempt at a non-threatening smile.

Aela pursed her lips, her eyes moving from the commandos to the van, studying them, searching for something, anything that would betray a more sinister intent. _Why me and Rae? Why send commandos? Why a High Matriarch? Why __**Trellani**__? _

The matron was hesitant, cautious . . . but she was still asari and thus, naturally curious. She slowly got to her feet, rising from the street-side bench. Aela was surprised to find that she was actually _taller_ than Quoren by at least half a foot, but did well to keep a straight face. She started towards the van, nodding, and the commandos seemed to relax, if a little.

"So . . . How were you able to tell if we were . . . well, _us_?" Aela inquired as she slid into the car seat beside Phorae, noting herself just how _nice_ the leather cushions were. "My name isn't that uncommon and I'm going to be honest, I don't believe I stand out all that much in regards to looks."

The commandos piled into the car after her, Quoren sliding into the front passenger seat. She craned her neck to glance back at the matron, holding up her omni-tool for Aela to see.

"Biometric scanning," The acolyte answered, smiling. "You and your crew are in the database. All government employees are, captain."

Aela frowned once more, brow furrowing. "Government . . .?"

"You and your crew explored distant star systems under contracts charted by the Citadel Exploration Committee _and_ the High Thessian Council," The commando called Theba added. "You discovered worlds that ended up being candidates for asari colonization. Like it or not, that makes you and your crew government employees."

Aela leaned back into her seat, soaking in the new information. The car began to move, smooth like only asari vehicles could be. Lights from buildings streaked by, people too, casting streams of color on the darkened windows.

"Alright then," Aela said, sighing. "Let's see what Matriarch Trellani wants with us."

"Matriarch?" Phorae piped up, blinking her big blue eyes. "What matriarch?"

"You're going to want to sober up rather quickly, Rae . . ."

**]-[**

_Up next: Bearded men wearing boiled leather and woolen cloaks. Think Lord Eddard Stark and his ilk. Should be fun._


	2. Chapter 2

_Please check first chapter for an important author's note. Thank you!_

**]-[**

_**Earth (Terra), somewhere in the northern hemisphere**_

The air had a bite to it, Jonathan noted. Every gust of wind was a thousand icy needles being thrown into his face. The man squinted as the whispers of the gods blew through his dark hair. He frowned, lips pressed tight together as to not harden and crack against the cold, and wrapped his grey woolen cloak tighter about his body.

From his balcony, Jonathan Trevelyan looked up to the sky, not a single trace of blue to be found. All grey and white it was, and cold and dank and promising heavy snow or cold rain. The man silently cursed the Allfather for bestowing upon man the damnable winter months. He cursed his ancestors as well, for daring to pass down to him their bloodrights. Behind him, the doors to his study were left open, the man uncaring as the wind invaded the dusty room, sending loose parchment dancing into the air.

Had Jonathan been born under a different name, Stroud or Ashwell or even Stark, he might be enjoying the luxury of a keep by the sea or one built over a hot spring.

But he was not born under a different name. He was born Jonathan of House Trevelyan, first and only son of Addistan and Maery Trevelyan. That meant that the Lordship over his family's keep, Whitehall, was not only his right but his duty as well. Leaving the hold to the bears and wolves and the squatters, that was out of the question.

So he endured. He did not complain when the title of Lord of the White Hills fell to him, he did not complain when the snows fell heavy over his lands and hid the grass away for months on end, and he did not complain when his marriage proposals were turned down, no High Lord wishing to send their sweet lady daughter to some stony keep tucked far away in the northern hills.

The white-grey fortress of Whitehall was never considered a comfortable place, and the White Hills were unforgiving, as unyielding as the people who held them. _A hard place for hard men_, was what the west-most Lords would often say, _unsuitable for the gentle hearts of our daughters_.

Jonathan heard boisterous laughter from below, loud enough to be heard the winds ghostly wailing. He stepped towards the balustrade and looked down into the ward. A small smile came to his lips when he was then reminded just how his patience was rewarded.

Down below, there were several figures, ranging from young men to younger boys. They all wore some form of protection, ringmail, chainmail, boiled leather, either plates or scales. In their hands, they held swords, dulled and blunted as to not slice or cut.

They stood, arranged in a large circle, watching in amusement as two of their own swung at each other in the middle. These two were the youngest of the lot, short lads whose voices could still be confused for those of girls, and were padded down with so much protection it was a wonder that they could move at all. And yet there they were, swinging wooden short-swords at one another – or at least attempting to, as their arms could scarcely move beyond what the padding allowed.

They hit nothing but air mostly, neither boy willing to chance a hard strike from the other's blade, even with the armor they had on. But every once in a while, there would be a piercing _clack_ as the two little knights met sword for sword, or a _smack_ from when one would strike the other across the arm or leg with the flat of their weapon. The older ones would whoop and cheer at those moments, shouting encouragement from their circle. Even from the balcony, Jonathan could hear them clearly.

_Well struck_, one of the men would say. _Don't be afraid, boy, hit him good_, came from the younger ones, the ones who straddled the line between being a boy and a man grown.

This went on for a time, before an older man stepped into the circle, putting himself between the two young knights. Sir Darryl Calwyne was balding and had a hooked nose with dark grey eyes that seemed black in the right light. His face was unforgiving, seemingly kept in a permanent grimace. Yet, he was a gallant man, kind and gentle to those who deserved it.

"That's enough for now, you two," He spoke with humor, plucking the wooden swords from the boys' hands. He inspected the weapons briefly, snorting as his eyes drank in the chips in the wood. "Quite the battle you had, from the looks of it."

One of the boys pulled off his helm, his dark hair soaked with sweat. Most of it clung to his forehead while wild strands hung low over his eyes. His cheeks were a rosy red and his breath smoked with every pant. "I was winning, Sir Darryl!" Henry Trevelyan whined. "Why do we have to stop now?"

The other boy furiously removed his helm as well, wild red curls seeming to spring out from his skull. "You were not winning, liar!" cried young Quinn Warrick, one of the steward's boys. "I hit you more than you hit me!"

"You were only tapping my feet! Men don't die when you stab their foot, Father said so!" Henry argued, ignoring the amused looks from Sir Darryl and the rest.

"You're not a man, though! You're just a boy like me!" Quinn countered, sniffing. "My brother said that boys have less blood than men, so they bleed out faster. If you got stabbed in the foot enough times, you'd lose your blood!"

Another figure stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered with short black hair and the beginnings of a beard showing on his pale face. He grinned down at the two bickering boys, resting his hands on their shoulders as he led them out of the circle.

"Now, I'm not sure if that's entirely true, but if you got stabbed in the foot enough times you'd wind up a cripple for certain," Robert Trevelyan spoke with mirth. He mussed Henry's hair. "You did well, Hen. A fight for the songs."

"But I was winning, wasn't I? You saw!"

Quinn glared at the youngest Trevelyan boy, and stuck out his tongue. Henry did the same.

Robert laughed, a deep rumble emanating from his chest. "Oh, I don't know. You two seemed pretty evenly matched."

From his spot high above them, Jonathan could not see the two younger boys pouting. He saw them reach the far end of the Ward where Robert began to help them out of their cumbersome padding.

Jonathan was too busy watching them to notice that someone had joined him on his balcony. The squat figure strolled up beside him, leaning against the balustrade as Jonathan was. Wispy grey-black hair covered little of the older man's scalp, instead falling over his neck like a sheet. With a long pointed nose and a bulbous head bobbing on a thin neck, Steward Tomard Warrick, resembled an aging eagle rather than a man.

"The boys grow stronger every day," He noted with a hint of pride. "Oh, what I would give to possess even a _sliver_ of the vigor they have."

Jonathan rumbled in agreement, nodding at his old friend. Tomard had been fostered at Whitehall, brought up along with Jonathan since they were but green boys. When the time came that he was no longer a boy, Tomard had chosen to stay rather than go back to a home where he was not wanted. "Whitehall had me longer than the Oak men did, no point in pretending to be one of them," he told Jonathan's lord father when asked why.

Together they watched their sons struggle out of their pads, waddling about like barrels with legs.

"Either my eyes are beginning to deceive me, or Henry and Quinn are taller than they were just a week ago," Jonathan murmured, idly scratching at his dark beard. He shook his head, smiling. "Allfather save me, Tom. Sometimes I can scarcely believe how fast the boys grow!"

Tomard laughed with him, eyes squinting against the wind. "I shouldn't be this surprised anymore, my lord, especially in regards to your youngest. Trevelyan men have always had a habit of growing as tall and broad as damned oak trees! Your other son, he's near a man's age now, but I fear that the gods have yet to finish blessing him with height!"

Tomard was correct. As a boy, Robert had been a scrawny one, with a thin neck and slumped shoulders. But then he reached _those years_, the time when a boy found his voice to be wild in pitch and that girls were catching his eyes more and more. Robert grew and grew and _grew_ and even now showed little signs of stopping.

There was no doubting that Robert was favored by powers higher than those of men. Dark haired like his father, thick in the arms and legs and torso, but not because of his appetite. Or perhaps it _was_.

The boy could _eat_, that was for certain; meat and bread and potatoes and mead - when Jonathan allowed it, of course. And Jonathan and Tomard were not the only ones to notice this. Masons' daughters, handmaidens, visiting ladies, Robert was the apple of their eyes.

_Apple? They look upon him as if they were hungry wolves lusting for a slab of meat._

Blessings of the body aside, Robert had also shown signs of great leadership. The people adored him, not because he was their lord's eldest son, but because he was simply good. Jonathan watched him on occasion, how he would play with the children, how he would help in the stable and in the forge, how he would hunt down game with Sir Darryl and Brom and all the rest of them.

Jonathan smiled sadly. _Doubtless he inherited such a personality from his mother…_

"He will make a fine lord someday," Lord Trevelyan declared, turning from the balcony and retreating back into his study. He ignored the sheets of parchment that had been blown about the room.

Tomard followed closely behind, closing the doors that led out into the balcony shut. "A fine husband as well, if the way the serving girls look at him is any indication."

_No_, Jonathan thought, frowning. _Not this again, not now. _The lord said nothing, taking a seat at his desk. He idly gathered up some parchment that was within reach, not looking his steward in the eyes.

But Tomard pressed further.

"Have you told him yet, my lord?" He inquired. Jonathan could not help but pick up on his accusing tone, but still he said nothing.

The steward's smile had since vanished, replaced with a stern look that resembled what a father would give to his son.

"You cannot delay telling him forever, Jonathan. In one way or another, that boy is going to find out. The news should best come from his father and not the gossip of a couple of maids. Gods only know what he will do if he finds out about it _second hand_."

Jonathan looked up with hard eyes and answered his friend, firmly, "I do not wish to discuss this further, Tomard."

His steward merely shook his head. "Lord Trevelyan, with respect, the longer you go without telling Robert about the arrangements you have made, the worse it will be. For the _both_ of you."

Jonathan grimaced, teeth clenched tight.

"My lord…"

Jonathan shot his friend an undeserved glare. "And what would you have me say to him, hmm? Should I tell my son that I stole his future away? That I sold him off for… for… for what?"

"You stole nothing!" Tomard shot back with a glare of his own. "My lord… everyone for leagues around – the commoners, the lords, all of them – knows just how fragile the peace is in our land. The Hollanders have never been friends of your family, that's true enough, but it has been years, Jonathan, _years_ since blood has been spilled."

The steward then adopted a softer expression, one of sympathy. "Times are not like they were when your father was lord. We have no king, not anymore. Nor do we have the boundaries placed by his laws. The only peace is the peace that we make for ourselves. You saw a chance to end a feud, Lord Trevelyan, and you took it."

Jonathan sat in his chair quietly. He absently gazed upon the inkwells, the parchment, the seals, contemplating. Then he snorted.

"You believe that makes it better, Tomard? That I gave Robert's future away for peace?"

Tomard made an exasperated sound.

"You did no such thing! You gave your son a wife, my lord, if nothing else!" The frustrated steward stepped around the large desk, placing himself across from the sullen-looking nobleman. Jonathan could see the man's lips pressed into a thin line, undoubtedly thinking of something to say that might make him feel less like a horrid father. "And, if what Lord Hollander says is true, you secured your son a _young_ and _pretty_ wife. Macey Hollander is said to be a very sweet young lady. I would hardly name you a bad father for _that_, my lord."

Jonathan made a sound, a rumbling that came from deep in his chest. He brought a hand to his chin, still frowning, but looking not quite as pathetic as he was just before.

"A pretty young thing, eh?" Jonathan exhaled audibly through his nose, nostrils flaring. He rubbed his forehead, as if that would alleviate his headache. "Of course Hollander would say that. He certainly won't call his daughter ugly, so I doubt his words have any real weight to them… How do others describe this girl, Tomard?"

The steward rolled his eyes. "They describe much like her father described her, my lord: young, pretty, sweet as a pastry cake. I think Robert will more than enjoy her company. When you tell him about her, of course."

Jonathan shot Tomard a look at those last words, not quite smiling but not quite frowning. The dark haired man exhaled again, rising from his desk. For a moment, Jonathan had forgotten that Tomard was almost a head shorter than him. The Lord of the White Hills gave his old friend a half-smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Aye. I will tell him then," Jonathan declared, bringing a satisfied smile to Tomard's slightly wrinkled face. "But… not today. He'll be taking Henry out riding near the edge of the woods this afternoon, him and Brom. I won't spoil that for him. Nothing puts out a man's fire as quickly as finding out that he's been betrothed, eh?" Jonathan chuckled mirthlessly and Tomard could only shake his head, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of the steward's mouth.

"So it's settled. Alright then, what else?" Jonathan inquired, gesturing to Tomard.

"I'm sorry?" The older man asked, confusion falling upon his face.

"Do not play the fool, Tomard. You came to me for a reason and it certainly wasn't to convince me to tell Robert about his… _arrangement_. Out with it."

It was Tomard's turn to frown. He looked rather uncomfortable now, shifting from one foot to the other, finding his eyes drawn down to the wooden floor. Then, with a sigh, he produced a thin roll of parchment from his cloak. Jonathan regarded it like one would any piece of paper, but Tomard held it out, away from his body as if it were a poisonous creature.

"And what exactly is that?" Jonathan asked, both amused and concerned at the odd behavior of his steward.

"A message, my lord," Tomard admitted. "…from Lord Hollander."

Jonathan blinked. Once, then twice. A moment of silence fell over the study, a brief moment, before Jonathan snatched the message from Tomard's fingers.

"Lord Holl-…?" Jonathan trailed off as his eyes drank in the words on the parchment. He read the message, then he did it again, and again. A frown came to his face once more, which then quickly turned into a nasty scowl, a fierce look that those of Trevelyan blood were infamous for.

_Jonathan Trevelyan, Lord of Whitehall,_

_By the time you receive this letter, I will have already embarked on a trip to your holdfast. My daughter is coming with me, as is High Priest Theoden of the Faithful. I trust that your oldest boy is well, for I wish to join my house to yours as soon as I arrive with my host. I find that the sooner such matters are settled the better. I will be arriving within a fortnight._

_Respectfully, Alton Hollander, Lord of Fairgarden and Autumn Springs, true servant of the Allfather and his lesser gods and goddesses._

Jonathan clenched his fist, the thin slip of parchment crunched within. The lord began to pace around his study, seething.

"That… impatient… _bastard!" _Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, fuming. "_Respectfully?_ He _dares_ write that when he is anything but! Bastard will not even give me the courtesy of waiting for my response!"

"My lord-."

Jonathan whirled around to glare at Tomard, pointing a finger at the older man, accusing. "_This_ was what the whole Robert business was about, wasn't it?"

"Yes, my lord," Tomard admitted, holding an apologetic expression. "As I said, one way or another, Robert will find out. And it should come from _you_, not Lord Alton."

Jonathan's jaw clenched, the man forcing himself to think before he spoke. He was angry, yes, but he would not let that control him. He turned from the steward, fists clenched, breathing deeply.

"A fortnight… A fucking fortnight… less than that, if Hollander has indeed already started for us," Jonathan breathed, exasperated. He suddenly felt drained, as if he had been aged by a decade or two. His headache had returned, stronger than ever, and with it came thoughts of Lord Alton Hollander.

_Damn that man_, Jonathan thought bitterly, _damn him! Him and his High Priest, Allfather take both of them!_

Tomard inched closer, hesitant to provide any form of reassurance lest his Liege Lord have another bout of anger. "Lord Trevelyan…"

"I will inform Robert tomorrow morning," Jonathan said, slumping down into his chair. He waved his steward away. "Go. You are dismissed, Tomard."

Tomard gave a quick bow and retreated through the door to the study, gently closing it behind him. Then there was near silence, not a sound besides Lord Trevelyan's even breathing and the ghostly wail of wind against the windows.

Jonathan still held the crumpled letter in his hand. He tossed it away, cursing it.

_I will tell him tomorrow, first thing when the sun rises_, he thought, frowning again. _Robert will retire to bed a lord's son and heir and wake up betrothed to some girl he has never met. And in less than two weeks he will be married to her. Trevelyan and Hollander joined together. I can only hope that it will be worth it._

Later than night, after Lord Trevelyan had retired to his solar, he found himself staring out an open window, gazing upon the many, many stars that twinkled brightly above him. Each one of them was said to be a lesser god or goddess, a servant of the Allfather. A superstition conjured up by some foreign mystic, of that Jonathan had no doubt.

Yet, on that night, the stars seemed to shine just a bit brighter, enough to mesmerize the conflicted father. He stared at them, wondering. Perhaps one of them might fall for him, shoot across the night sky and grant him a wish, a favor from the heavens?

That night, Lord Jonathan Trevelyan prayed to the stars.

**]-[**

_Surprisingly, this did not take as long as I thought it would. Yes, I know it has been a few weeks since the first chapter, but I have been busy for a lot of that time. This chapter only took about a weekend's worth of free time. Normally, people would prefer spending their free time watching television or playing video game or whatnot. Luckily for you, I love writing and seek to make it my main profession. What better way to cultivate my skills than to practice them any chance I get?_

_Up next: Aela gets a new ship and a new mission. Adventure begins!_

_Also: obvious foreshadowing is obvious._


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